 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE CAGED BIRD.
Beating against the bars,
Fretting within the cage,
For the purple sky and the kindred stars,
Of a loftier lovelier stage,
In the bloom of her budding age;
She beholds the pomp of the princely cars,
And the shipwrecked wretches lashed to spars,
On the ocean's rage;
And she beats, though her bosom hides the scars,
Which are woman's wage,
At the prison bound which her being mars,
And no gilding can assuage.
Fretting within the cage,
For the purple sky and the kindred stars,
Of a loftier lovelier stage,
In the bloom of her budding age;
She beholds the pomp of the princely cars,
And the shipwrecked wretches lashed to spars,
On the ocean's rage;
And she beats, though her bosom hides the scars,
Which are woman's wage,
At the prison bound which her being mars,
And no gilding can assuage.
326
Pining for lack of air,
Fading away from light,
Though the sunbeam just may touch her hair,
Where it rested once so bright,
In her tresses' heavenly night;
Must she see the dog in its velvet chair,
And the vilest creature with a lair,
Nor possess the right
Of the very dust on the gallows' stair?
And enjoy no sight,
That with gleam of hope would her wrongs repair,
In the famine and the fight?
Fading away from light,
Though the sunbeam just may touch her hair,
Where it rested once so bright,
In her tresses' heavenly night;
Must she see the dog in its velvet chair,
And the vilest creature with a lair,
Nor possess the right
Of the very dust on the gallows' stair?
And enjoy no sight,
That with gleam of hope would her wrongs repair,
In the famine and the fight?
Shut in a narrow lot,
Shelved like a shameful thing,
Where the hatred strikes still against her hot,
As the blast the Siroccos bring,
And the love has a sharper sting;
She receives the praise which is but a blot,
And her spirit owns the accusing spot,
In the poisoned spring;
As the thoughts arise that can only rot,
And the broken wing
May not soar above, when the sky is not,
And the voice forgets to sing.
Shelved like a shameful thing,
Where the hatred strikes still against her hot,
As the blast the Siroccos bring,
And the love has a sharper sting;
She receives the praise which is but a blot,
And her spirit owns the accusing spot,
In the poisoned spring;
As the thoughts arise that can only rot,
And the broken wing
May not soar above, when the sky is not,
And the voice forgets to sing.
Beating her breast in vain,
Beating until it bleed,
On the painted bolt and the silver chain,
That despise the imploring need,
Nor her helpless flutterings heed,
She may wildly yet at the barrier strain,
Though she shall but gather the fruits of pain;
For the first black seed,
That was sown in soil of a wilful brain,
Bears the blacker weed,
Like a upas-tree which must kill the grain,
And the fatal harvest feed.
Beating until it bleed,
On the painted bolt and the silver chain,
That despise the imploring need,
Nor her helpless flutterings heed,
She may wildly yet at the barrier strain,
Though she shall but gather the fruits of pain;
For the first black seed,
That was sown in soil of a wilful brain,
Bears the blacker weed,
Like a upas-tree which must kill the grain,
And the fatal harvest feed.
Only a bird which spread
Slendour of gold and blue
In the early dawn, and upraised its head
To the zephyr that it might sue,
And believed the wide world was true;
It was only a bird, with its tender tread,
Which looked up to heaven for the daily bread,
As its carthly due,
And had never tale of deception read,
That its victims rue,
Which would seek the living among the dead,
And have lost the saving clue.
Slendour of gold and blue
In the early dawn, and upraised its head
To the zephyr that it might sue,
And believed the wide world was true;
It was only a bird, with its tender tread,
Which looked up to heaven for the daily bread,
As its carthly due,
And had never tale of deception read,
That its victims rue,
Which would seek the living among the dead,
And have lost the saving clue.
327
Woman and gentle clay,
Clothed in the glorious dress
Of the grace, which is a more sweet array
Than the robes that a monarch bless—
In her innooence could she guess,
That her sun would set in its dewy day,
And the hands that clasped be provoked to slay?
Or the last distress,
Would be born of blossoms upon her way,
Like a skull's caress,
And the worm in the opening petals play,
And make naught her loveliness?
Clothed in the glorious dress
Of the grace, which is a more sweet array
Than the robes that a monarch bless—
In her innooence could she guess,
That her sun would set in its dewy day,
And the hands that clasped be provoked to slay?
Or the last distress,
Would be born of blossoms upon her way,
Like a skull's caress,
And the worm in the opening petals play,
And make naught her loveliness?
Tempted with beauty's gift,
Fallen because so frail,
In the searching tests that the weakly sift,
As the stroke of a thresher's flail;
Must she ever mourn and ail,
And adown the fiery current drift
Of the passions, that shake but do not shift,
Till their fuel fail?
Must the awful bonds refuse to lift
To her hopeless hail?
Must the darkness nowhere ope a rift,
From the grip of her golden jail?
Fallen because so frail,
In the searching tests that the weakly sift,
As the stroke of a thresher's flail;
Must she ever mourn and ail,
And adown the fiery current drift
Of the passions, that shake but do not shift,
Till their fuel fail?
Must the awful bonds refuse to lift
To her hopeless hail?
Must the darkness nowhere ope a rift,
From the grip of her golden jail?
Petted and still a slave,
Pampered and yet less free
Than the sailor borne by the surging wave,
When no haven he may see,
And the rocks are on the lee—
Or the prisoner in his grimy cave,
Which to him is sealed as the solemn grave;
And no earthly fee,
Shall restore her now the pure forehead brave,
And the bended knee;
She has gathered of fruits that cannot save,
From the fair forbidden tree.
Pampered and yet less free
Than the sailor borne by the surging wave,
When no haven he may see,
And the rocks are on the lee—
Or the prisoner in his grimy cave,
Which to him is sealed as the solemn grave;
And no earthly fee,
Shall restore her now the pure forehead brave,
And the bended knee;
She has gathered of fruits that cannot save,
From the fair forbidden tree.
Curious and not vile,
Thirsting for something more
Than the vulgar stones of the vulgar mile,
Which were not of the precious ore,
As she burdens humbly bore
To the Town, which gave her a welcome smile,
And allured her with its enchanting wile,
To the deadly store;
Like the monsters of the mystic Nile,
Which its children tore;
For she dreamed not the lips would yet defile,
And the hands that did adore.
Thirsting for something more
Than the vulgar stones of the vulgar mile,
Which were not of the precious ore,
As she burdens humbly bore
To the Town, which gave her a welcome smile,
And allured her with its enchanting wile,
To the deadly store;
Like the monsters of the mystic Nile,
Which its children tore;
For she dreamed not the lips would yet defile,
And the hands that did adore.
328
Ignorant, but a lass
Filled with the fancies rare
Of a mind that outsoared its narrow class
And would higher ventures dare—
That had known not a single care,
And compelled all the blackest forms, to pass
Through the misty light of its magic glass;
She would fondly fare,
If the world beat round in its blinding mass,
And its glory share;
Though the earth was iron, the heaven was brass,
And no maiden might they spare.
Filled with the fancies rare
Of a mind that outsoared its narrow class
And would higher ventures dare—
That had known not a single care,
And compelled all the blackest forms, to pass
Through the misty light of its magic glass;
She would fondly fare,
If the world beat round in its blinding mass,
And its glory share;
Though the earth was iron, the heaven was brass,
And no maiden might they spare.
Virginal, coy, and still
Mad for the larger room
Of the larger life, that would drink its fill
Of the dazzling dew and bloom,
And discard the cottage broom;
Where her cunning hand could show some skill,
And the hungry heart delight its will;
From the curbing gloom,
To the brimming cup that seemed to spill,
She pursued her doom,
In the lustful kisses that must kill;
And her freedom turned a tomb.
Mad for the larger room
Of the larger life, that would drink its fill
Of the dazzling dew and bloom,
And discard the cottage broom;
Where her cunning hand could show some skill,
And the hungry heart delight its will;
From the curbing gloom,
To the brimming cup that seemed to spill,
She pursued her doom,
In the lustful kisses that must kill;
And her freedom turned a tomb.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |